


Shrapnel

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Light Bondage, Loyalty, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape, Soul Bond, Soul Bond Breakage, Unwilling Verbal Consent, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: It was for Noct that Regis was calling him in, which Ignis knew, and the Crownsguard knew, and whoever amongst Regis’ secretaries who’d booked the meeting knew. Ignis knew as well, deeply, without any doubt, that it was not to discuss Noct’s latest school report.His hands trembled as he walked down the long corridor to Regis' suite. In his chest the firelight warmth of his soulbond with Noct flickered but did not gutter.





	Shrapnel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cordialcount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordialcount/gifts).



> I wrote this for a tag that I didn't realise you removed until too late — I hope sincerely it's still okay! Your letter was a joy to read.
> 
> Beta'd by Gooseberry; thank you <3

Ignis was admitted into Regis' private rooms for an audience at 11:40pm, back aching from having been sitting at a library desk slightly too low for him. Their meetings being held in private rooms were not unusual, since what he discussed with Regis was often private: Noct's wellbeing, his moods, his personal expenses and activities outside of school, Citadel functions, and tutoring. The Crownsguard were, at least, uninterested in Ignis' appearance, and they let him through with no comment or second glance.

As for the time — the king was, Ignis knew, a very busy man. It was unsurprising that he was forced to extend his audiences so late into the night, for the sake of his beloved son.

It was for Noct that Regis was calling him in, which Ignis knew, and the Crownsguard knew, and whoever amongst Regis’ secretaries who’d booked the meeting knew. Ignis knew as well, deeply, without any doubt, that it was not to discuss Noct’s latest school report.

His hands trembled as he walked down the long corridor to Regis' suite. In his chest the firelight warmth of his soulbond with Noct flickered but did not gutter.

Regis was sitting at his desk, reading, when Ignis knocked and was called to enter. 'Sire,' Ignis said, and he bowed, perfect form as he’d been taught a decade ago. When he straightened he saw that Regis was still reading, so he stood and waited.

After a minute Regis sighed, looking up as he sat back in his chair. 'Ignis,' he said. He sounded, and looked, exhausted. 'I gather you understand why you're here.'

Ignis did understand, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do anything at all to confirm or deny it.

He knew why he was in Regis’ office. That was why he was here in the most basic and strictest of senses — but why the thing beating in time with his heart, and Noct's heart, nestled up inside them both like a baby bird, palm-sized? The wonder so sweet it ached every time he touched Noct's face, running his fingers from his jawline and up through the soft thickness of his hair first thing in the morning, before it was styled? The way he could feel, even now, the sleepy heaviness of Noct in his chest — in his head, in his mind's eye, the contentedness of a black cat, paws curled beneath him, eyes closed. Stirring uncertainty, because of Ignis’ own half of the bond was reverberating with something like fear.

Soulbonds did not happen often. Even though he loved Noct, and had loved him from the moment they’d met, and would love him until he died, Ignis hadn’t even considered that they would soulbond. That was for couples in films, friends of acquaintances, motivational stories. It had grown in them like mould; by the time the fruiting body was noticeable the invisible fungus-root hyphae had settled deep through their flesh.

It had terrified him.

He didn’t know how Regis knew, only weeks after he and Noct had realised themselves, never speaking of it or putting it down in longhand or text. But he couldn’t manage to be surprised. At some level he’d always known it was unacceptable, and would be found out and destroyed. It was naive to think it wouldn’t be, that they could get away with near treason, when Noct was expected to marry whomever Lucis needed him to. And yet — and yet—

He’d never been so happy as in the last few weeks with Noct.

Still sitting, looking at him, Regis didn’t seem in any rush for Ignis to answer. His expression was grave, one of professional anger. Ignis’ whole body trembled with the cold dread of what next, of the vulnerability of a citizen under his monarch, who'd given everything to him and could take it away again just as easily. Of the terrible, childhood horror of having broken the rules and been found out.

‘Sire,’ he said, because even though there was no other reason he could be there, brought to stand before the king in his private rooms, he still couldn’t admit to it. Couldn’t let the best part of him go without even a little resistance.

‘You are aware that you cannot be soulbound to my son,’ Regis said. The coldness in Ignis’ chest grew until he could feel his body tremble with it, rattling around his lungs and ribs and heart. The black cat of Noct in their soulbond stood up in alarm.

‘Sire,’ Ignis said, and forced himself to gasp a breath. ‘There was in 612 and again in 690 well documented cases of arranged marriage where one partner was soulbonded to a third party. Both marriages produced legitimate offspring and the contemporary records permit that allowing the bond to continue was a passable option. And before that there are considerable numbers of other, anecdotal, cases.’

‘Ignis.’

‘More recently, statistics show that in soulbonded couples suffering infertility in one partner, pregnancy through sex with the fertile partner and an extramarital person, rather than IVF, occurs in a not insignificant number of couples. And it’s understood—’

‘Ignis.’

‘Sire, please — for Noct’s happiness.’ Ignis’ breath was fast and choppy, almost gasping; when had he started gasping? His whole body was shaking with sickening adrenaline. ‘He’s not been this happy since childhood. Please. You can ask his tutors, or Gladio Amicitia. He’s happy, motivated, and keen in his work. Please. I will step back. I will support his eventual marriage in every way, whoever is chosen. Please do not break our bond.’

‘Ignis, you know I love my son, but his happiness cannot be weighed greater than the wellbeing of the country. Noctis cannot be soulbonded outside his marriage.’

‘In reviewing the options I believe the marriage will be so advantageous to the other party that even with Noct soulbonded, it will go through.’

‘Ignis.’ Regis’ voice was hard. Ignis’ mouth, open in a yet unformed plea, closed. ‘Thank you for your discretion thus far. As we are in agreement in our value of Noctis’ happiness, you will, I’m sure, continue in that vein.’

He stood, pushing himself up with his hands on the armrests of the chair, and Ignis tried to swallow down the nausea that swelled in his throat, dizzying behind his eyes. Regis was only an inch or two taller than him, but now he felt tiny and frightened. When Regis stood in front of him, close enough to touch were he to reach out, Ignis looked down at the floor and only just managed not to flinch away.

‘Do you understand what you have to choose?’ Regis said. ‘There are a couple of ways in which to break a soulbond. I would give you the freedom of which.’

Ignis could not reply. He wanted to protest, to say Regis should not do it, could not, that he didn’t understand and wouldn’t allow it. It would be lying; he did understand, and Regis could, and would.

‘If you want,’ Regis said, ‘I will send you away. Distance and time will break the bond. I will ensure you are given an excellent position in one of the outside territories. You will not be able to see Noct for several years.’

‘No,’ Ignis said, thick, like honey sticking and burning in his throat.

‘Then you understand the only other option is forced intercourse?’

It was not, Ignis knew, the only other option. Studies were sparse. Experiments made beneath the notice of ethics committees, or beyond their reach, were of dubious scientific worth; they were present nonetheless in the literature as its grotesque foundations. Ignis had, in the past few weeks, read every paper and report he could find. He knew that rape in itself was not what broke fragile soulbonds, new and tentative and not yet cemented through longevity, despite centuries of rape being central to the cultural and media depictions of soulbond breakages, and the obvious link of rape and sex and love and soulbonds meant it was generally considered so. Ignis knew that any sufficient emotional trauma would very likely break his and Noct’s bond, barely a month old. Case studies had followed couples suffering terrible accidents, and natural disasters, and violent deaths in the family. The experiments had cited torture of various kinds, physical and mental.

Ignis didn’t know if he wanted to point that out: to highlight just where Regis’ knowledge was apparently lacking. Did he know that there were other options and was omitting them because he did not consider them viable, or did he simply not know about them at all, because his was a layman’s knowledge? He would not be, of course, consulting his privy council over what to do in this matter. But correcting the king was not proper, and besides, what did the method mean when the end result was the same? And he did not want to be tortured, or be trapped in a house fire while his uncle burnt to death in the next room, any more than he wanted to be raped.

‘Your Majesty,’ Ignis said, ‘don’t decide now. Give us a week to persuade you that Noct can and will be better for the soulbond.’

Regis stepped back, knocking his knuckles against the surface of his desk, impatient and frustrated. ‘Ignis,’ he said. ‘I do not want to do this. I am extremely unhappy that I am being forced into this by yours and Noctis’ irresponsibility. I will not be giving you any other option. Choose, now, one or the other.’

To be raped, or sent away. He didn’t need to think to choose; he would stay with Noct whatever happened. However Noct loved or didn’t love him. But he didn’t want — to let Regis destroy what they had — he’d been so happy. Noct had been so happy. Ignis hadn’t known before what being loved was like, in the way Noct loved him, with his whole heart.

‘Rape, Sire,’ he said. ‘Please.’

Regis’ lips thinned, though Ignis couldn’t tell if it was from calling the act rape, or for asking for it instead of being sent away. It was, after all, forcing the act on Regis as well as himself. At least it was assuming that Regis was not going to call in someone else to do it for him. Clarus Amiticia, perhaps, or Cor the Immortal. Or perhaps he would even arrange it with someone unknown, or distantly related, to make it look like a simple misfortune. A tragic, senseless crime.

‘Very well,’ Regis said, and did not call in anyone else, or send Ignis away to wait for further instructions. He took his phone from his pocket and placed it on the desk. His suit jacket was hung over the back of his chair. Ignis watched, and couldn’t manage to feel ashamed about forcing Regis to be personally complicit in his rape, or spiteful, or anything much but dizzying misery. His heartbeat was painful with self pity, and the terrible shame at knowing he was also forcing this pain on Noct, who hadn’t agreed to either forming the soulbond or breaking it.

They walked together down the hallway, out of Regis’ office and into a spare bedroom, Ignis a couple of steps behind and to the side. The bedroom was warm and the bed was made, though Ignis couldn’t think who would have possibly last slept there. Regis closed and locked the door behind them, and Ignis stood in the middle of the room, staring at the tasteful, patriotic greys and blacks of the bedsheets. The curtains were drawn. There was a dressing table with a chair. The TV and mirror were fixed to the wall, but there was a vase on a side table, and the chair itself could make a useful weapon, Ignis’ mind told him, were his opponent not his king.

It took a moment for him to realise what Regis was doing as he went to the head of the bed, crouching stiffly beside it. The headboard was a solid piece of wood, but there were legs, and around one Regis was attaching something he’d pulled from the armiger.

Regis pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself on the bed as he levered his body up, painstaking. Ignis saw that the thing he’d attached to the bed was a resistance band and cuff, like those used in training. ‘I understand that you’re consenting,’ Regis said, moving down to the foot of the bed, ‘and I’m sure you’re fully intending to follow through. But I’m aware that breaking soulbonds can be painful, and I’d rather there is as little physical struggle as possible, for both our sakes.

‘Ignis, if you would do the other side, please.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

To obey the king was the natural order of things; Ignis took the cuffs and bands Regis placed on top of the bed and knelt to attach them. They looked new; he wondered where and when Regis had got them, and whether he’d got them specifically for Ignis, or if he’d had to repurpose them. If Regis had ever used them to train, or used them sexually, discreetly, like this. If he’d ever had to break a soulbond before and this was how he’d done it then, or if he’d used and appreciated them on a willing partner.

A small, spiteful voice in his head wondered if Regis wasn’t going to appreciate them now. He’d decided to do this himself instead of delegating it to any number of other people not directly involved, whose silence and compliance both would be unquestionable. Maybe Regis was going to enjoy it. Maybe that’s why he was doing it in the first place.

It was a stupid, poisonous voice, but as Ignis started to undress, he couldn’t quite convince himself it was wrong. To be sure, ordering someone else to do this would be increasing the number of people involved and therefore increasing the chance of it getting back to Noct or the public, however small. And Regis, Ignis thought, was not the sort of king who would use his position to order his loyal subjects to rape, even if superficially consensual.

Then again, Ignis had thought Regis was not the sort of king to rape his loyal subjects.

He had agreed to it, Ignis reminded himself as he undressed; it was not technically rape. But when the very point of it was to be traumatic? It still wasn’t rape, Ignis decided, regardless of what the experience was like. Soulbond breakage was on the basis of emotional pain, not lack of consent. Physical pain was expected — required — in training to be Crownsguard, let alone Noct’s most personal retinue, and he’d never shied from that. He had taken pride in it, in overcoming it and emerging from the other side a more proficient tool for Noct to use. What difference did it make that this would be emotional pain rather than physical?

It was rape; Regis was raping both Ignis and, through Ignis, Noct. It was for the good of the country, but to deny it as rape was puerile, wilful blindness.

For the good of the country. Ignis took a deep, shuddering breath. For Noct. So he could stay with Noct.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear and slipped them down his thighs, off one leg then the other. He left the crumpled fabric on the floor for a moment, then picked it up and folded it to place on the seat of one of the armchairs. It seemed wrong to place worn, dirty underwear on the furniture, but leaving them on the floor in front of his king felt somehow worse.

He’d been naked in front of his peers before — Noct, Gladio and Prompto, largely, a familial nakedness from childhood as well as more recently. They’d been naked together when showering after training, or in the baths, or on odd occasions when out camping, or changing when staying at Noct’s flat because it was too late to go home or simply Noct wanted them there. He’d been naked in front of other Crownsguard before and after training, when they were sometimes professional but more often rowdy, a room full of hormonally fuelled, adrenaline-high teenagers.

(And with Noct — they hadn't even kissed, hadn't laid hands on each other in any way that was not brotherly, no matter how Ignis and Noct had wanted it. They hadn’t said anything but Ignis had thought that maybe if they waited until they were of age no one would notice, or no one would say anything if they did notice, just maybe...)

Regis’ eyes on him made him feel like his clothes had been armour, and now he was bare in a far more vulnerable way than nakedness.

Ignis kept his hands at his sides, not covering himself, because what was the point in that? Regis was still dressed when he gestured to the bed, and Ignis walked up to it until his knees were brushing the mattress. He stopped. 'How would you—'  
  
_How would you like me_ seemed incredibly crude; _how should I lie_ was better, perhaps, but still impossible to say.  
  
Regis didn't reply, so Ignis tried again. 'Would you prefer me on my front,' he said, and meant to continue with _or my back,_ but the words failed to articulate. Even with the warmth of the heated room he felt chilled, broken out in a cold sweat.  
  
'Your front,' Regis said, not quite bland, or irritated, or with any indication that he was enjoying himself. It was another kind of emotion that Ignis didn't want to recognise but couldn’t stop himself from picking apart to analyse. Not eagerness, but — perhaps impatience. Of course Regis wanted this over and done with as much as he did, Ignis told himself, and went up to the bed. He crawled up onto the mattress on his hands and knees, feeling his face and chest burn bright with knife-sharp embarrassment, and the familiar tight shake of anticipating pain. The sheets under his hands and knees were silk: cool, soft, and slippery.  
  
He'd got the the head of the bed, hands just nudging up under the thick pillows, when Regis moved behind him. He froze, as if that could hide him, as Regis went to the armchair to take a thick cushion from it. 'Put this under your hips,' Regis said, and handed the cushion to Ignis. Ignis took it, placed it under his hips, and lay down on it.  
  
There was another pause, longer, when Ignis turned his face down into the pillows, the skin of his back crawling with anticipation. How much would Regis expect him to participate? Surely not much if he were to be tied down, spread-eagle. What could he do in that position? Regis touched his ankle and he flinched, hard enough to jerk his foot from Regis' grasp. Regis took a hold of him again, tighter, yanking him back hard enough to make Ignis' breath jump in his throat with the surprise of it. 'Do not fight me,' Regis said, and the anger and disgust were as obvious in his voice as if they were training swords striking Ignis across the back.  
  
'I'm sorry,' Ignis managed, and tried to stop the shame from clenching his throat too tight to breathe. It was his fault, after all, that the soulbond had been created. If he had maintained more of a professional distance — if he’d been content with protecting and providing for Noct as a servant and not anything more. If he hadn’t basked in Noct’s love instead of politely turning it down. Was Noct feeling this through their bond? How much would it hurt him? What was he doing and what would he do, when their bond was broken?  
  
Regis didn't reply, only pulled Ignis’ leg to the edge of the bed and attached the cuff tight around his ankle. It pinched, but the elastic of the resistance band allowed him give, if not much. Ignis moved his other leg to the other side of the bed, exposing himself, and pushed his face down into the pillows so Regis didn't have to see his eyes welling up with humiliated tears.  
  
He gave his hands to Regis to tie down, then he lay there, spread-eagle, trying not to move. He ran through breathing exercises and relaxing his muscle groups one by one as Regis adjusted the cuffs and bands until Ignis was spread wide, and any movement at all was a struggle against the elastic of the resistance bands. The sound of his stuffy breathing, getting mucus over the pillows, did not cover the sound of Regis getting undressed. Ignis couldn’t tell if he was undressing fully, or perhaps only his lower half. Would he leave on his knee brace? Would having to fuck Ignis in this position hurt him?

The bed dipped and Ignis didn’t manage to muffle the small sound of surprise that shoved out of his mouth, forcing itself between his teeth like a small animal. He tensed up, though Regis didn’t comment, only ran a hand from the small of his back to his thigh. He didn’t grope, or clutch at Ignis’ flesh; his hand was cool and dry and clinical. His thumb rested on the inside of Ignis’ thigh, and Ignis could feel it, like static electricity, as it trailed back up towards his groin.

Regis’ hand reached the curve of his arse, smoothing up to lie over it, and his thumb ran up the crease to stop over his hole. The weight of him, and the warmth of the contact on Ignis’ bare skin, made Ignis want to twitch and roll away. Regis lifted his hand all at once, and then Ignis did flinch from the sensation of its absence. His legs curled, stretching the resistance bands, but he did not allow his knees to move inwards to hide himself. He needed to do this.

 _It should have been Noct,_ he managed to think, incoherent even to himself, as Regis uncapped a bottle of lubricant and poured a little down the crease of Ignis’ arse. _I don’t want to do this._ He strained at the bands, breath catching as the physical evidence of his restraint became apparent.

He tensed up again as Regis’ hand returned and without warning slipped a finger into him, deep, until Regis’ knuckles pushed against Ignis’ flesh. The intrusion was not painful, but the friction dragged at him in a deeply unpleasant way; inside him, closer to his chest, something started to hurt.

Ignis grunted as Regis removed his finger to trace around his hole — collecting lubricant? — to push back inside again, hard and inelegant. He withdrew halfway then did something, twisting and pushing sideways, and that was Ignis’ only warning before a second finger shoved into him.

That hurt, as did the swelling pain higher up and deeper inside him. The bond, Ignis knew, and helplessly and instinctively tried to grasp at it, tuck it against himself, protect it from the saw tearing at it, teeth stuck but shoving back and forth in time with Regis’ two fingers. He gasped, then again, lifting his head to allow himself access to fresh air. It was startlingly cold on the skin of his face.

A third finger nudged up against him and Ignis felt himself tighten down around the two already inside him, hard enough it hurt. Did it hurt Regis? Were his knee and back painful in this position? Ignis’ hips bucked up away from the intrusion. He was trembling as he strained against the resistance bands. His breath was coming in short little pants, ragged and hard, turning the inside of his throat raw.

Regis stopped moving his hand, but the sawing at Ignis chest continued. He twisted, arching his back first up then down into the mattress, but the teeth were already wedged inside him.

He shouldn’t have agreed. He shouldn’t — Regis squeezed more lubricant onto his fingers, cold, wet, and slick, and forced the three of them into Ignis.

Ignis’ grunt turned into a whimper, sharp and strangled, as something caught and tore inside him. He couldn’t tell if it were physical or not, nor where in his body the pain was radiating from. His arms tensed, yanking down, muscles in his back bunching to allow him to push himself up onto his elbows. It was barely a few inches off the mattress, and he had nowhere to go from there. He held the position anyway, head bowed like an oxen pulling a cart, while his arms shook and Regis’ fingers forced themselves in and out of him in a slow, thorough rhythm. When Regis’ other hand landed gently between his shoulders he fell back down to the bed with a thump and a gasping, wet exhale. His breath hitched and for a terrible moment he was certain he was about to throw up.

His hips hurt, sharp and cramping. His stomach hurt, and knees where they were digging into the bed, and ankles and wrists where the cuffs pinched his skin. His neck hurt from tensing it, and head, and shoulders, and inside his chest where the saw was dragging its blades through his ribs and into his heart.

Was Noct feeling that as well? Was he in pain from what Regis was doing to them?

Regis’ fingers shoved deeper into him. His belly tightened and cramped, like a skewer poking into his flesh, not quite rupturing organs but twisting them around itself, bruising them. He could feel the burn and flush of his flesh, swollen and aching, even more keenly as Regis removed his fingers and left him open and loose. The lubricant was cold on his skin. A sudden spike of pain in his chest, like being stabbed, cold and terrible. He was panting wildly, only barely catching back the moaning keens behind his teeth.

Noct was in pain. Noct was hurting and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He was the one causing it. He needed to stop it; he needed to escape, hide and heal, curl up around Noct to protect him and keep him hidden. He needed to — he couldn’t — he couldn’t—

Above and behind him, Regis made a sound: a strained exhale. Ignis caught his breath, trying for a moment to stay silent, but Regis didn’t say anything. The bed moved again, dipping down around Ignis’ hips, and all the muscles in Ignis’ thighs and back seemed to jump with the cool, heavy press of Regis’ body on his.

Regis’ cock nudged up between his legs, already hard, slipping against the slickness of Ignis’ skin. Ignis’ breath hitched, then again at the ice-shard agony erupting in his chest.

Where was Noct? Was he still in his rooms? Was he looking for Ignis?

What was Ignis going to tell him?

His hole had tightened up without the fullness of Regis’ fingers keeping it open. Regis’ cock pressing against him was like forcing a baseball down his throat. He could feel it shove up against his hot, bruised flesh, and something tore inside him, down one side of his heart.

‘Please,’ he said, and didn’t even register speaking except for the harshness of the air in his throat. ‘Please don’t, please let us — please don’t break it—’

‘Shut up,’ Regis said above him, and braced himself with one hand on Ignis’ shoulder, and the other spreading him and holding his cock in position. ‘This is your own fault, Ignis, and had you not been so stupid, so unforgivably careless with my son, then this—’

He shoved forwards and breached Ignis. The pain tore through Ignis’ stomach, his inner thighs and through the bones of his pelvis and hips. The saw wedged itself into his chest, catching fibres of him in its teeth. It yanked back, snapping them in two.

Ignis screamed, drowning out what Regis said. He dug his knees into the mattress and bucked, and Regis slipped out of him, balancing with both his hands grabbed on hard to Ignis’ shoulders, sitting back on Ignis’ thighs. He was still speaking, one hand moving to grab the back of Ignis’ neck, fingers wet and slick as they dug into his flesh. Ignis couldn’t hear the words, only the sound of Regis’ voice grating in his ears, insensible, furious, like sharp little knives in his back.

It hurt, and worse than that — it hurt Noct. It was hurting Noct; somewhere, Noct was in the same agony Ignis was, and didn’t know why. He hadn’t asked for the bond. He hadn’t agreed to have it destroyed, sawn out of him without warning. Ignis needed to stop his pain. He needed to protect him. He had to protect the ragged remains of the thing they still had in their chests.

Throwing his shoulders back, spine arched, Ignis felt the fingers around his neck tighten and push down. He was stronger than the hands, but the cuffs around his wrists and ankles held him to the bed, and all he could do was struggle in place, caught like a fly in a spider web. The bed creaked. He tried to reach one hand to the other — if only he could reach then he could undo one cuff, and from there free himself. He could go to Noct. He could stop his pain. He could protect him.

He couldn’t. The cuffs wouldn’t break, and he couldn’t reach his hands to free himself. His body shook from the exhaustion of fighting. This time when Regis shoved him down, pushing a knee between his legs to separate them, he was not stronger.

Regis’ fingertips felt steel-capped when they dug into the muscle of his shoulder. The brush of hard, cold metal against Ignis’ side made him flinch away from it, but couldn’t do much more than squirm to the side. Fingers shoved into him, stretching him back open, biting and tearing.

‘Please don’t — it’s hurting him—’

His head was shoved down into the pillows. Ignis gasped, choking on his sobs, trying to lift his head but failing. The fingers shoved deeper, spreading him wider. The burn turned hot like scalding water, sharp like glass.

Regis’ cock pressed against him, nudging up inside the bracketing of fingers. It pushed in as the fingers left, sinking in, rocking deeper and deeper. Ignis screamed, muffled into the pillow. There was something wrong with his heart. His whole chest was burning, torn down the middle; his heart was not working. His head was spinning, slipping into unconsciousness. Pain. Regis’ cock thrusting in and out of him, tearing him, shoving at his soft insides.

Somewhere, Noct was feeling the same. Ignis wasn’t there to stop it, help him, protect him.

‘Stop, _stop,_ please stop—’

Ignis was the one doing it to him. He’d agreed to it. He’d been careless. He’d loved Noct too much. It hurt too much to bear.

The saw rocked down one last time, and the thing in Ignis’ chest snapped. He blacked out.

When Ignis came too he was still lying on the bed, Regis thrusting into him. There was something ruined and cold inside his chest, sharp edges pushing against his heart as it beat and lungs as he breathed. When he reached for it it stung his fingers.

Ignis turned his head so he could breathe more easily. The force of Regis’ thrusts was pushing his face into the pillow, which was wet and sticking to his skin. The feeling of Regis’ cock inside him, in-out friction around his hole and the force of the blunt, hard head poking at his internal organs, made him want to throw up.

‘Sire,’ he said, and coughed as his chest and throat protested, and that made him light-headed. Regis’ thrusts did not slow; Ignis could hear his strained breathing in a quick, stable rhythm. He didn’t want to throw up, or faint again, so he gulped in air and didn’t try to say anything more.

How long had it been since he’d blacked out? How long since he’d arrived to meet with Regis? His head spun, the hungover side of severe drunkenness. His hands and feet were numb. His arms and legs strained, yanking at his shoulders which hurt with the sharp pain of muscle injury.

Regis shifted before thrusting in again, getting down so that he was braced on his elbows on either side of Ignis’ shoulders, his forearms pressing down on Ignis’ upper arms. His leg brace dug into the skin of Ignis’ thigh. Ignis could feel his breath on the back of his neck, short and sharp and humid. Regis’ hot, sweat-slick thighs and hips shoved up against Ignis with every thrust. The hair on him prickled and itched at Ignis.

‘Sire,’ Ignis said again, and was cut off with a long, deep thrust that seemed to go right through him, punching holes in his worn-out organs. He moaned, the sound pushed out of him by the apex of Regis’ thrust. ‘Sire, you can stop. It’s broken.’

Regis continued, as if he hadn’t heard. Ignis swallowed to try open his throat from where it was clenching shut, clear out the sobs and thickness inside it, and said louder: ‘Sire?’

Regis ignored him. He was making sure the job was done, Ignis supposed, squeezing his eyes shut, swallowing again to stop himself throwing up now that his throat was clear. His stomach clenched violently. His whole body was at once burning hot and cold, the room tilting and listing around him.

He didn’t feel Regis orgasm before he moved back, getting up onto his hands and knees, cock falling from Ignis’ hole. It was hard to tell who was breathing harder. When Regis shifted to undo the cuff on Ignis’ ankle, Ignis stayed still and didn’t jerk his leg away as soon as the cuff fell open. He was shivering, trembling with tight little shudders, and felt entirely sure that the moment he moved properly the pain would come flooding in, unforgivable.

Regis undid the cuff on his other ankle then knelt back between Ignis’ legs. He put his hand under Ignis’ hip and said, ‘Up.’

Ignis’ hands were still cuffed, but he didn’t know if he could speak to explain that. When Regis’ hand pushed upwards he managed to bring his legs underneath him, knees sinking into the mattress and back arching sharply down. The movement sparked pain up and down his spine and hips; his stomach cramped, making him groan, but his body told him that it’d be worse in any other position.

Regis knelt behind him and braced his weight with one hand on Ignis’ shoulder, pressing him down into the mattress, making it hard to breathe. He pushed his cock back inside Ignis with the other, then put that hand on Ignis’ shoulder as well. His thrusts were shorter, deeper, and harder than before. They drove little moaning sobs out of Ignis’ mouth, stifled cries at the rhythmic pain in his stomach and hips and heart. Regis’ hands pulled Ignis towards him, stretching his arms, stopping him from pulling forwards.

Why was he still doing this? He’d succeeded. The bond was broken. It was done and over. The problem had been fixed. Ignis had been fixed. It hurt.

‘The bond broke; you can stop,’ Ignis said, and had to shut his mouth fast to stop himself from throwing up. He gagged and swallowed back the vomit that had swelled up in his throat. Regis’ thrusts were shoving his face down into the bed, crushing his chest and throat. ‘Sire—’

‘Silence, Ignis.’ Fingers digging into Ignis’ shoulders, Regis didn’t stop. It felt like his full weight was pushing down on Ignis’ upper body, yanking his arms, shoving the air from his lungs. Ignis’ feet pressed into the bed, trying to brace himself to push himself up and relieve his arms, but Regis pulled him back, and after a moment he stopped trying. He was light-headed, breath whistling in his throat. His body couldn’t do anything but take Regis’ cock, knees beneath him, back bent and arse in the air, rocked forwards with every thrust.

‘Please — sire. It broke. It broke.’

‘Given your willingness to lie by omission, Ignis,’ Regis said, harsh, panting out each word with his thrusts, ‘I think I should decide to err on the side of caution.’

For a moment the meaning of it did not sink in. That the bond was broken, sawn apart and ruined, seemed so all-consuming that to not know it was inconceivable. ‘It’s—’ he struggled both to find the words and also to breathe, to open up his mouth for something other than to suck in desperate, panicky gasps of air as Regis thrust into him. ‘Please. I have never lied to you.’

‘You are not stupid, Ignis; don’t pretend to be.’

‘I’m not. Sire, please—’

‘I hired you because you are not stupid; don’t give me a reason to think you are,’ Regis said, and he leant forwards and chocked Ignis further, squashing the air out of him. His voice was dark and hard and unforgiving. ‘I’m doing what I have to. I’m doing what you’ve forced me to do in order to protect my son. Do not argue with me.’

 _Yes, sire,_ Ignis tried to say, but couldn’t. The words spun around him like wings, beating against his head. He couldn’t understand; he had lied by omission but — it was broken. It was dead and gone.

Regis didn’t believe him. Regis was going to make sure the soulbond was broken beyond any doubt. This was rape; this rape had to, in its very nature, be traumatic. Regis couldn't do this kindly even if he’d wanted to, and why would he want to be kind to Ignis?

Regis’ fingers dug into Ignis’ shoulders as he sped up his thrusts. He grunted, breathing strained with exertion. Was he in pain as well? The metal of his brace had warmed against Ignis’ skin and become slick with sweat; it pinched Ignis’ skin as it moved.

There was no apparent sign of orgasm when Regis pulled away this time, either. Ignis tried to stay where he was, but as Regis got back off the bed, causing the mattress to shift, Ignis’ knees slipped out from under him and he buckled. He lay, panting, with his knees either side of his waist and his hands stretched out, prostrating himself to the headboard. His whole body shook, and he couldn’t stop even though each violent tremor hurt. He tucked his head down, chin to his chest, and tried to breathe without sobbing. His cheeks and nose itched with tears. He could feel his hole gape open, hot and wet and sloppy, flesh bruised and puffy.

At least it was over. He hoped it was over — any more and he thought he would shake apart entirely.

It was over; after an indeterminate amount of time Regis came up around the bed and undid the cuffs on his wrists. Ignis tucked his hands under his chest, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulders. His lower half he kept as still as possible.

‘Ignis,’ Regis said, and Ignis didn’t quite manage to react. ‘Get up.’

He got up, shaky like a newborn animal. His legs didn’t want to hold him, and he had to lean against the bed. He couldn’t look at Regis. His whole chest was an open wound, punched through, stuck with shards of rib and shrapnel.

Regis handed him a potion, which he took and broke wordlessly. Everything but the chest wound healed. He wiped his face on his wrists and the backs of his hands, but it wasn’t enough when he couldn’t stop crying.

‘Get dressed,’ Regis said. He was dressed immaculately, except for his hair, which was falling slightly from its neat style. ‘And be out before the hour.’

‘Sire,’ Ignis whispered.

'You will be in work tomorrow morning,' Regis said. 'When, earlier, I thanked you for your discretion both past and future, I hope you understand that such discretion will be vital to your continued employment and freedom within Lucis.'

Numbly, eyes down on the floor where his shoes were placed, Ignis nodded.

'Do you understand?' Regis said.

'Yes, Sire,' Ignis said.

'Good,' Regis said, and left.

Ignis stood and waited until Regis was out of the door before moving to pick up his clothes. His heart was thumping in his chest. Regis' sudden disappearance hadn't quite registered, and he still kept twitching upwards, expecting to see him watching, waiting.

He was gone. It was over and done with. He had no idea how he'd be able to face Regis again, at work, at social events, by Noct's side.

His underwear, folded on the chair seat, seemed absurd; he could barely pick them up. Noct kept a spare set of clothes in the armiger, and Ignis remembered thinking it both practical and highly amusing, if inappropriate. He’d teased Noct for it, words warm with bone-deep fondness and bright burning love. He didn’t have access to the armiger yet, so he slid on his used underwear, telling himself that his feeling of disgust for putting them on dirty was absurd when he was far less clean than they were. He could feel slickness between his legs, and told himself it was sweat and lubricant, not come. He could hardly check here. He wouldn't check, even at home.

Had Regis used a condom? Surely he had. He had access to Ignis’ medical records, but if he’d wanted this to be secret then looking at them would be suspicious in itself. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps this wasn’t as secret as Ignis had thought, and Regis had discussed his options openly with his privy council. Ignis didn’t know. He couldn’t think.

At some point he knew he’d wanted to crawl into Noct’s arms. He’d wanted to feel him and know he was safe, alive if not unharmed. Now, he felt—

Moving hurt, even though he knew there was no physical wound. Getting dressed was slow and painstaking, and he knew the ensuite had a shower, though he didn’t think he’d be allowed to use it. He could shower once he got home. He hoped desperately that he wouldn’t leak anything through his underwear and trousers onto his car seat. He wanted to be home, in the shower, in his own bed. Clean and alone.

He checked his phone automatically, a thoughtless response as he picked it up to pocket. There were 24 messages from Noct and 11 missed calls. He held his phone in his hand as he walked down the corridors, and he stopped in the junction he knew would take him to Noct’s rooms.

To go and see Noct in person was the right thing to do. Ignis owed him an explanation, even if it was a lie, a cover for what Regis did to them. He would tell Noct something; tell him that sometimes new bonds just broke for no reason. That perhaps they hadn’t meant to be. That it was for the best. And then — and then what? He would comfort Noct? How? He would take comfort from Noct? Would he?

He didn’t want to see Noct. And if Noct wanted to see him, then — he supposed he could come back, if Noct really wanted to see him.

That would take a lot of time and effort. He got his phone and dialled Noct’s number, not reading any of the texts.

‘Ignis?’ Noct picked up on the second ring. His voice was hoarse. Had he been crying? He sounded exhausted.

‘Noct.’ He stopped walking, his feet feeling the same loss of direction his voice had found. ‘I — I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. Sometimes… sometimes it just — happens. I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t know?’ Noct sounded — Ignis couldn’t tell how he sounded. Whether he believed Ignis or not. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Ignis said. ‘Apart from… apart from the obvious. Are you?'

It was, Ignis knew, a patently absurd question. ‘Yeah. Apart from that.’ Noct said, and then neither of them seemed to know what else to say.

‘That’s good,’ Ignis said, then hesitated. ‘Would you like me to come over?’

There was a pause. Ignis stared at his feet, feeling the weight of dread in his chest. He just wanted to go home. Shower. Crawl into his own, cold bed. ‘No,’ Noct said. ‘Uh. But thanks.’

What did it say that he felt relief that he didn’t have to see Noct? _That your soulbond is broken,_ Ignis thought dully. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.’

‘Yeah,’ Noct said. He made a noise; Ignis couldn’t tell what it was, whether a small sob or laugh or cough, or something else entirely. He breathed in, deep and uneven. ‘Yeah. Night, then.’

He hung up. Ignis lowered his phone, locked it, and slipped it into his pocket.

The corridor was empty. When he took a step forwards the shrapnel in his chest poked into his heart and lungs, pressing down into his diaphragm, and breathing deeply did not seem to clear it, even only a little.

Ignis walked down to the carpark, and it hurt. He sat in his car, and it hurt, and he closed his eyes and swallowed, and it hurt.

He checked his phone again out of habit before he drove home. There were no messages from Noct; that hurt, too.


End file.
